Page 80 of Man of the Year

“You’d never be able to make so much on your own,” I say. “And I’d never be able to do this without you.” Bullshit, but this pep talk has to work its magic. “We are going to be rich, okay?” I assure him. “So rich that you will have ten Mariahs hanging on your arms. Sipping cocktails in Rio. Riding a yacht in Morocco. We’re almost there. You know that, right? I’m freaking out right now.” I’m not, but that’s irrelevant—I need to relate to this guy. “I’m on edge, and honestly, I’m shaking. I’m petrified. But this is all we’ve worked for."

Phil’s gaze softens. “Yeah, I know."

To be fair, he didn’t do any work, but just like a punished pet, he needs reassurance from the master. It’s the carrot after a whip.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” I say. “The tension gets to me. But we can do it, Phil. You and I.” I look into the mirror and meet his gaze. I hold it, nodding, as I connect with his inner power animal. His is a raccoon, or maybe a worm, but it is what it is. “We’ll be mega wealthy.”

I reach behind my seat and offer him my fist for a fist pump. He obliges. He’s used to my outbursts. And he desperately wants that promised piece of the cake.

I pull my Maybach to the curb in front of the financial building, which should already be swarming with investors waiting for us. Soon, we will make history. That will make me a billionaire while leaving thousands of others bankrupt in a matter of days.C’est la vie.Humanity never learns from its mistakes of trying to get rich on questionable promises by doing nothing for it.

Parked, I unbuckle, lean back between the front seats, and fix Rosenberg’s hair. "Good. We are good." I inspect his face and suit. He’s like a child, seriously, a grown man with peanuts for balls, but he does look GQ, and he carries himself well. That is, when sober and with proper guidance. “Are you ready, Mr. Rosenberg?” I ask in my most respectful voice.

He nods.

I nod back. “We are going to make history, yes?”

He snorts, but his smile is getting more confident. “Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you!”

“Yes!” he says louder.

I grab him by the back of his neck and bring his forehead to mine. “I didn’t hear you, you rich bastard!” I shout with a smile.

“Yeeeeees!” he shouts back with a grin.

“Are we going to be filthy rich?” I roar.

“Yeeeeeees!” Phil roars back, shaking with anticipation.

And the show is on, ladies and gentlemen!

Thank god for the soundproof glass and tinted windows in my car.

The valet is already waiting by the curb. I jump out of the car, unhook my keychain, toss the rest of the keys at him, and open the passenger door.

"Mr. Rosenberg,” I say with an important face, holding the door for Phil. When he gets out, I whisper, “Let’s take this world by storm.”

The fool is already puffing out his chest, his practiced cocky face on as he confidently buttons up his ten-thousand-dollar suit, fixes his cufflinks, and raises his chin.

Damn, occasionally I do like his third-rate acting. But it's the last time I'm opening the car door for this worm.

SIXTY-TWO

NATALIE

I wake up groggy and in the dark. It takes me a moment to remember where I am—that’s still unknown, but I know who put me here—Nick.

I hear footsteps. Someone is here, though not in the dark space I’m in—a chest or a cellar—but on the other side of the door.

I’m afraid to make a sound. If it’s Nick, this means he’s back, and this time, I’m done for.

But when the door opens, unfamiliar boots step into my vision—work boots, or military, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen Nick wear those.

I squint, forcing my eyes up-up-up the black pants with a tactical belt and a black long-sleeved shirt. The silhouette against the light in the doorway is still blurry, and I can’t see the face of the man who moves and drops to his haunches in front of me.

“I’m going to take out your gag and remove the ties, but you can’t be loud,” the low voice says, slightly familiar, though I can’t place it. “Nod if you understand.”

---